Wilson's laugh was brittle. In it was no humor at all. "That is
precisely right. Even though I am disobeying my senior officer, Mr.
Manning will be disobeying his senior officer if he does not follow my
orders."
"But isn't Admiral Stone senior to all of us?"
"Yes. But he is a distant senior to you. I am your immediate superior.
And now, damn it, stop making like a space lawyer and let's start
hunting!"
Wainright nodded, but as he turned to leave he was muttering:
"Wish we had more than the steak knives in the wardroom to fight with!"
X
Vacantly the three survivors of spacewreck, in the lost lifeship,
stared at the grille of the infrawave receiver in the deadly silence
that followed Admiral Stone's last transmission. This was the end of
message, end of hope, end of them.
Jock Norton's toneless voice gritted, "That about rips it wide, doesn't
it?"
Alice Hemingway's voice came out, weak and thin. "Ted--you tried. Now
you'll--"
Andrews stood up quickly, and strode across the floor shakily. He faced
the infrawave receiver with a mad glitter in his eye, and he roared:
"Damn you, come back! Damn you, come back!"
Over and over he roared the inane words, and as he roared, his anger
and madness increased until he was beating a fist on the cabinet in a
violent rage.
The infrawave said crisply, "Flight Squadron Nineteen in flight pattern
for Procyon Four."
"No!" screamed Andrews.
"--time," continued the infrawave.
"No!" screamed Andrews again, beating the cabinet with both fists now.
"Ten!" said the infrawave, and Andrews came down on the cabinet with
all of his wiry strength.
"Nine!" The beat became a rhythm with the call.
"Eight!" Another hard slam left blood marks on the metal.
"Seven!" The cabinet bent inward. A shower of glass fell from the
tuning indicator.
"Six! Almost lost in a solid thunk.
"Five!" And after the blow something spluttered in the speaker's throat.
"Four!" Knobs bent, and Andrews' blood drooled along the cabinet front
toward the deck.
"Three--" With a fizzling sound the infrawave died, and said no more.
Insanely the man beat upon the bent cabinet in the same rhythm although
the sound had died. He beat and he beat until the stun and shock had
been wiped out of Jock Norton's face. He came over and hauled Andrews
from the cabinet. The financier struggled, but it was futile against
Jock's size and strength and youth and stamina.
The pilot trapped Andrews' flailing arms and held him immobile until
rage, madness and hysteria had passed. Andrews lay silent, his face
blank, his breathing shallow.
Norton looked at Alice. "Stroke?" he asked worriedly. "Has he got a bad
heart?"
Alice looked up, the semi-blankness fading from her face. "I--don't
know. Is he--"
"He's passed out or burned out, or worked himself into a faint."
Alice brought a blanket as Norton lifted Andrews to one of the bunks.
"Jock?" she asked.
"Yes?"
"What does this mean? Enemy ships and all that?"
"It ain't good, baby. From somewhere has come the inevitable
transgalactic culture, only with guns instead of gifts."
"But it isn't like us to run."
He nodded soberly. "Yes, it is," he told her positively. "The first man
lived to start the human race by knowing when to run like hell. He ran
until he could pick up a handy rock to throw. That's what our men have
done. Run home to get our rocks."